Once in Darkness, Brought to Light
by robingal1
Summary: Neal is kidnapped and forced to work without proper food or rest


It had been hot for days, summer was long and the nights longer still. It had rained earlier, causing New York to cool... a little. Only now it was muggy.

Jones turned to his side, kicked away his bed sheets, beat his pillow, and tried desperately to fall to sleep. Since Neal's disappearance nearly three weeks ago, everyone had been working double; the normal case load had always been difficult, but added to that was every free moment hunting down leads to find Neal.

Just this one night, Jones wanted not to think about Neal Caffery. He slowed his breathing, yawned, and felt himself relax... until the crash from his living room had him on his feet, gun in hand, and completely awake.

His training kicked in; he made his way to the other side of his home. The lights were off, the only visibility coming in from the high windows. He made out a human form folding itself under his kitchen bar. "FBI! Hands on your head, asshole!"  
Jones quickly switched on the nearest lamp and returned his hand back to his weapon. He waited, unmoving. "I'll only tell you again-"

"Jones?" a voice small, winded came up from the floor.

He made his way to the kitchen, gun before him. His heart beating rapidly, but his hands steady. "You've got some nerve, breaking into an FBI agent's house... Neal?!"

The man looked up from where he was sprawled on the floor. His face was bruised and his pupils blown wide; his clothing was covered in paint, blood, and dirt; but most horrifying was the way he held his purple and bloated hand close to himself. He smiled, then his eyes closed and his head fell limp to the ground.

Jones was calling 911 before he thought to do so, informing the operator of his address and directing him to send an ambulance. All while ascertaining Neal's condition and trying unsuccessfully to get the man to wake up.

Peter sat in the waiting room, his foot bouncing, his eyes red-rimmed, and his wife drooling, asleep on his arm. Jones had gone back to the office hours earlier, needing to report all that had occurred.

Neal's doctor had listed Neal's injuries: drugged, a deep contusion with muscle and skin tears on his left forearm, an infected wound (likely from a knife) on his left angle (where some sicko had cut away his anklet), and a body pushed to the end of its endurance. Never mind all the cuts and bruises that covered his emaciated body.

Peter had been allowed to see his CI for a few moments before he was taken away to be stitched and wrapped back together. When the aid had pulled away the curtain to Neal's room, Peter felt his breath leave his throat; his eyed shed tears just at the sight of his hurt friend. Jones had warned him, but still...

Neal wasn't aware of his surroundings, his breath becoming ragged and fast when there were too many hands. He fought weakly, trying to escape. Peter placed a hand gently on the younger man's shoulder, offering assurances of safety.  
"Can't you give him something to keep him calm? Or to help with the pain?" he had demanded of the staff.

"No. Not with whatever's in his system. He's in for a crappy night, likely a terrible morning too." But even as the doctor said it, she said it with compassion, helping to loosen some of the fear in Peter's heart. "I'm sorry, Agent, but we need room to work."

And here he sat, sweaty, tired, a headache starting from his neck to his... everything. A sigh escaped him.  
El moved closer into him, supporting him even in sleep. He was caught by her generosity, her strength, her love. He carefully held her, trying not to wake her. He couldn't have made it this far without her.

He looked across the waiting room. It had been slowly filling with agents and one twitchy bald man since the sun had rose.

Peter felt a smile form; Neal wouldn't be without friends; he was going to get better; and Peter was going to nail the son of a bitch that did this to his partner to the fucking wall.

It hadn't been terrible, not at first, but then it became terrifying. The three of them had thrown him in the back of a van, held him to the floor as they melted into traffic, and cut the tracker from his leg. The knife went in deep, not just cutting the anklet, but also sending a message: we're in charge, we'll hurt you, don't make us angry.

They removed his watch, his phone, his tie, his belt, even his shoe laces.  
After that, they kept him blindfolded and bound, as he lay panting in the van, his leg on fire.

It was hard to keep time, but what felt like an hour later, the vehicle stopped. They wasted no time removing him from the van. He was encouraged to hobble quickly, his arms still bound, his eyes still blind, and his leg throbbing.

After walking though what sounded like echoing halls, his blindfold was removed. He was in a small office in the back of an empty, moderately clean, factory. A private printing press, maybe? It looked recently closed.  
An office! There will be a phone! He can call Pete-

"Mr. Caffery, focus please." The man with the boots stood before him. The bastard was smiling, like he'd won something. He sat on the end of the empty, dust covered desk; no one offered Neal a chair.

"I have several assignments for you. You'll complete them, you'll be fed. If you don't, you'll be... encouraged to do so. You have been hobbled to help you think better of escaping." His eyes never wavered, never hesitated. "I understand that you'll try to escape. I have measures in place. I understand you'll try to sabotage the work. You will only do this once."

Neal maintained eye contact, but kept his tone light, unafraid. "You seem to have thought of everyth-" The one wearing his fedora kicked him in his injured calf, hard. He fell with a cry, breathing harshly between his teeth. Desperately working at the tight leather cording binding his hands.

"You don't speak; you work. You work; you live." Boots said from his desk top perch. "Your first assignment is waiting for you. It's a test, Neal. There's a box of cereal for you if you complete it on time. There's an unpleasant lesson waiting for you if you don't."

He was yanked to his feet and escorted down a hall to the room that would become his private hellhole. It wasn't that bad, all things considered. It had a window (only just too small to crawl through), a well-stocked workspace (plenty of sharp items), even a mattress with a pillow crowded against the wall under the window. Amateurs.

Hat held him by the upper arm, speaking harshly into his ear, "Your work is waiting for you. I know what you're thinking, Caffery. Don't. You work; you stay healthy. You don't, then we have a conversation."

And with that, he was shoved to the floor, hands still bound; they left him. The door securely shut behind him.  
He made short work of the bindings, freeing himself and seeing to his leg. He took a pallet knife from the workbench and tore the pillow into bandages.

He allowed himself a few moments for the fear to wash over, to center himself and assess his resources.  
Neal slowly made his way back to the workstation. Everything he would need to create a replica of a quietly forgotten Vietnamese painting was laid before him, with a note: four days.

After assessing the contents of the room, the small camping toilet against the wall near the obviously dumpstered mattress, the tools on the table, and the knowledge that the longer he stayed, the more danger he was in, Neal focused. He formed a plan that no one would expect, that no one sane would attempt: Neal set the room on fire.

He had shoved the only chair against the door, locking the others outside. He made sure to burn everything he could, including the frame around the window, hoping to set off the fire alarm system, to alert passers by, causing the fire department to arrive. All he had to do was keep himself alive and keep the others outside.

He threw things against the window until it broke, causing more oxygen to enter the room. Smoke was everywhere. Neal kept the tattered remains of the pillow against his face as he kept near the floor, where the heat was intense but the air was easier to breathe.

The chair against the door never moved. Neal held the pallet knife in his hand, at the ready. But the door was left undisturbed.

The fire suppression system turned on, dowsing him in mold-smelling water. But still, the first responders must be on the way.

As soon as the last of the larger fires scaled down, the water stopped, and the wall opened. A hidden door? Boots, Hat, and the last one calmly walked into the room. They surrounded him, guns at the ready. Boots looked around; he seemed impressed. "I gotta say, THAT was not expected." The bastard rocked back on his heels, calm and satisfied. He motioned for Hat to put out the rest of the fires. "But I own this building, Neal. No one will come for you. You're my new toy, shiny and useful."

And without any warning, the tall one, a gorilla with fists and rage, hit him. And hit him. And hit him. Without pause. Neal was prone against the concrete floor, watching his blood mix with the stale water pooled about him.  
After a while, it didn't hurt.

Neal became aware again when the shivering started.

Once he had completed his first painting, just under the four day deadline, he was given his first meal, the promised box of cereal. It was small, with too much sugar and a smiling cartoon on the front. He hated it; he ate every crumb.  
Hat came in carrying his next assignment; an Icelandic sculpture.

Neal waited until he was gone, not willing to move unless he had to, his body too sore. There weren't any broken ribs, but everything hurt. Gorilla wasn't gentle, but he knew not to break the workhorse.  
Neal made the piece, with a slight flaw, within the same four day time frame. Boots found it. He was beaten and tightly secured to the bench, without food, until he finished it. Properly.

"Good job, Neal." Hat praised him. Bastard.

But they untied him. And again, cereal was his reward. "I need more than sugar and food coloring! I can hardly keep my hands from shaking. If you want me to work, I need food!" His voice was harsh sounding, having been eight days without use.

Hat listened, turned his head, like a disappointed dog owner, and left the room. Gorilla came then. For all the man's size, he was fast. He strode across the room silently, grabbed Neal by his forearm, hard enough that Neal could hear his muscles tearing, and threw him against the floor. And hit him, and hit him, and hit him.

After the feeling left his face, Boots entered the room. "No speaking, Neal."  
That was the last time he spoke.

The days blurred. The ache in his leg mattered less everyday. The pounding of his heart made him dizzy. His hand couldn't remain steady, his other hand useless, his stomach clenched in fear. "Here, Neal. Have some cereal." Another day. Week? "Good job, Neal. Eat your cereal." It was another painting. Had he done this one already? "Neal. Look at me." His eyes hurt. Too dry. But he did what they said. Someone was wearing his hat. He reached out for it. A hand, a big hand, intercepted him, held it. "You're going to do this painting again." He painted. It was getting too hard to breathe. The headache was beating in time with his... his... something. "Eat the cereal, Neal." It tasted too sweet. He was so hungry.  
It went on, his world measured in meals. The charred remains of the mattress smelled like mold. The new workbench smelled like paint and blood. The wind from the window though, he liked that smell.

It was morning, he could hear the birds. Without thinking, he placed the chair under the window and climbed, one handed, to look out at the beautiful day. He didn't want to be here; always scared and hurt. So hungry. He wanted to be out there.  
He pushed against the burnt frame, and pushed, and pushed. It moved! After nearly too much effort, it gave all the way. Neal wasted no time. He squeezed himself through the frame, feeling the sun on his skin.

A noise caught his attention, a fire truck in the distance. Oh, that's right, he needed one of those, though he couldn't remember why. He set out, the cracks in the pavement weaving underneath his feet. Until he looked up at the sound of a car horn.

What? Where was he? Was it night? How? Wasn't it morning?

The horn blared again. Neal slowly hobbled to the side of the street. He looked around. Something familiar about the lay of the buildings... safe? No. But nearby.

Need to walk there, one foot, then the other, one foot...

Then yelling. Gorilla must've found him.

"Neal?!"

No, not Gorilla. "Jones?" His voice was faint; he felt faint. Would Jones call Gorilla to hurt him?

Everything already hurt.

No, Jones wasn't Gorilla, Jones was rules and bad television and safe.

So dizzy...

Diana was a fair minded woman, but she had a gun, and if Mozzie didn't calm the fuck down...

Peter loved order, loved working, but this wait and see was killing him by inches...

Mozzie had endured many things, but none so terrible as sitting in a room filled with Suits, and too afraid to leave...

Jones had come back after lunch, tired and cranky, but he was where he needed to be...

Elizabeth had flown in the same night Neal was rushed to the hospital. This wasn't how she had planned her weekend, but the thought of leaving caused her to feel sick...

June walked into the room, assessed everything with a glance, and immediately went to work; Neal would have the best care, nothing else was acceptable...

His awareness came slowly. First was his mouth; too dry. He needed... something. Something wet, too dry. His eyes opened next. Heavy. But there was Peter. Safe. He was saying something. Didn't matter. Peter was here. Wait- where was here? Did Boots get Peter? He tried to reach out to his friend. His hand was too heavy. The other was being held down.  
No! No! Peter!

Everything blurred for a time, but then Peter was holding him. It hurt; it was wonderful. His head was too massive to lift, so he just allowed it to rest against Peter. He could feel his partner's breathing, his warmth, his strength. Safe. Home.

Neal had been four days with high fever. He mumbled about hats with cereal when he slept, but otherwise never made a sound. Peter had warned him about Neal's penchant for drugged singing or excessive talking. But this afternoon, and all the previous days, proved the exception to the rule.

It was Jones' turn to sit with Neal. The man often awoke anxious, needing to be reminded he was safe.  
Today though, was the worst day. His fever broke last night, and now the police were involved.

At least when the Marshals visited, they spoke with Neal's doctor and Peter, and left without too much fuss. Neal had a new tracking anklet on his right leg. He slept through the whole thing.

The police though, were much more invasive. They weren't cruel, merely thorough, exhaustively so.  
Neal worked with the officers, writing his testimony with a shaking hand. Jones wasn't sure if it was fear or the lingering drugs in his system.

After over an hour, Jones called a break. He escorted New York's Finest out into the hall. They were good people, but Neal was his friend, and it was difficult to watch him struggle.

Another round of questioning later, and Neal managed to convey what he could remember. The story started out linear, became jumbled, and ended in a mess of vague descriptions and hazy impressions. Including his descriptions of "Boots", "Hat", and "Gorilla".

Jones ensured a nurse saw to Neal as he walked the officers to the end of the hall. He questioned them, gave his card, and forced a promise from them to call if they needed anything. They were unable to offer any details regarding an ongoing investigation, but were both descent people who expressed professional sympathies.

After they left, Jones needed to leave, to clear his head, to find a healthy outlet for the rage and fear. Maybe at the firing range? Or the gym? Or the firing range? Or the cafeteria? Or the firing range?

It didn't take Quantico training to tell him these monsters were experienced in kidnapping and torture. Though thankfully not professionals, Neal would have never escaped had they not stupidly left him unguarded; even drugged, Neal was... Neal. Regardless, between the fear tactics, the beatings, the starvation, and the drugs, they had broken Neal in a matter of days.

No, not broken, merely temporarily bent. Jones couldn't help but smile as the officers came back, asking if they had dropped their wallets.

"You're safe. You're in a hospital. Calm down, Neal." It was Elizabeth; she was beautiful. Her hair was loose, messy, soft. She was holding his hand, not tight, just securely. A reassurance.

He smiled.

"Neal?"

He must have blinked; she was talking to someone. Who? He gripped her, not wanting her to leave.  
She looked back at him, crying. "I'm right here, Sweetie." She was holding him, petting him; he liked that. He closed his eyes, safe.

It had taken four days for the fever to break. After that, it was arguing with the Marshals, then the police, and trying very, very hard not to interfere with an ongoing investigation, to hunt down the sick bastards who had taken his partner.

Instead, he sent out Mozzie, who was too eager to leave now that Neal wasn't on death's door. Random texts would update him, keeping him in the loop. Mozzie may have also left the "more inept" of New York's Finest occasional clues.  
Peter spent most of his days sitting at Neal's bedside, watching as the weakened man worked with his doctor, his nutritionist, and his physical therapist to regain his strength. He was making progress, not as fast as Neal would like, but well on the way to recovery.

It had been nearly six days, in the same bed, the same walls; Neal's frustration was obvious, for all that he hardly spoke.  
It was trying, drawing Neal out from his shell to talk. The man had obviously been through trauma. Each time he spoke, he watched the door and walls, waiting for an attack.

In his nightmares, he muttered about gorillas and boots. Peter had to fight against the overwhelming need to shoot something.

Still, Peter knew better than to force a conversation; Neal would likely shut down, build up his walls; but Peter did make sure June knew the man's struggles; which meant that an extremely talented, highly paid counselor would likely be visiting Neal soon. In the meantime, Peter would do the one thing that Neal truly needed: be a friend.

After the drugs had fully left his system, Neal had begun to regain his center. He was still prone to long spans of time without speaking, but the old Neal was resurfacing.

Still too weak to walk, he had managed to get a nurse to wheel him to the garden outside. Never mind his doctor hadn't signed off on it.

Oh, well, would you look at that; it would seem her signature somehow found its way on there after all. Somehow.  
Too elated that his partner was starting to reappear, Peter only wheeled him back to the room without yelling once.  
Neal smiled the whole way. It was his way of reassuring Peter. Neal was injured, but mending.

Neal fought his way through another nightmare. He woke up choking on a scream, his eyes watering.  
"You're okay, Neal." a soft voice, but the hand holding his was strong and reliable: Diana.

His eyes were slow to clear, slow to focus. She was standing over him, calm and sure as always.  
It was dark. Well after sundown. "Neal, it's late, go back to sleep."

He swallowed and shook his head, the nightmare was too fresh.

Diana reached to the bedside lamp, turned it on, and began setting up a magnetic checkers board.  
He won the first round, he may have lost the second, he couldn't remember, his eyes started closing...

Neal studied the distance from his horizontal hell to the bathroom, his feet dangling over the edge; one foot swollen, wrapped in bandages over too many stitches; the other weighed down with a faintly glowing anklet.

The silence woke him before his bladder; for the first time in a week, he was alone. No Peter, no doctor, no well-meaning nutritionist trying to get him eat a fucking kale smoothie, just a man with an honest need to piss.

After careful calculation, Neal held the side of the bed, and slowly lowered himself to the ground, all his weight on his right foot. He waited for the dizzy spell to pass and then began the arduous process of hobbling his way to the end of the bed.

He made three pathetic hobbles, then his leg just collapsed. He did not land softly. His IV pole (which he had completely neglected) clattered loudly to the ground, his chin found the edge of the bed frame, and a shaming yelp escaped him as his ass hit the cold floor.

It only took a second for people to come bursting into his room. So much for quiet.  
He made himself stay calm as too many voices, too many hands were suddenly on him, grabbing and holding; one sounded very much like an angry Peter.

It wasn't until after he had been wheeled back from the bathroom and settled near the window that Peter spent a good ten minutes explaining "bed rest". Then the nurse, then, a few minutes later, his doctor. All loud voices, all telling him to stay still, to be silent, to do what they said. All of them. Against him. Surrounding him. Towering over him. He was too weak to stand. Too weak to fight back.

His hand, the useful one, curled into a fist. His breathing became harsh.

"Neal?"

"No! Shut up! I ca-" his breath caught. His hand covering his mouth. The other trying to protect his middle. He shuddered. Too much noise.

"Neal, look at me." Peter, calm and steady; Peter, kneeling down; Peter apologetic, but determined. "You're right; you deserve some space." A chuckle. "You've been on display for days now, without much input." He stood, nodded to the others, and they left.

Neal took a deep breath.

"Well, today, that changes."

Neal watched him. He was up to something.

"I spoke with your doctor and you'll be released soon..." There would be a catch, there always was. "...provided you eat a full meal and have at least one full conversation."

He made sure his spine was straight, his arm loose on the chair rest. Look confident. He could do this. Talking was his trade. He could do this. No, he would do this.

He opened his mouth, ready to say... something, but nothing came out. He could feel the frustration building, the carefully crafted calm leaving.

"To help motivate you, El packed a lunch." He went over to this coat, draped carelessly over a chair, and uncovered a packed picnic box; he drew two bagged sandwiches. The first was a simple peanut butter and jelly (from his nutritionist's approved list), tossed into his lap.

But he couldn't be goaded to care, he was fixated on the horror that Peter held. Neal knew that bag, that smell.  
"Mmmm... deviled ham. Fresh too!" Peter began unwrapping it. The odor immediately assaulting his nose.

"Peter..." he pleaded.

The man took a huge bite, actually enjoyed it. "I'll make you a deal: for every full sentence, I put this away. For every pause, I (and my sandwich) take a step closer to you." The man seemed proud. Him and his stupid culinary controversy. "What would you like to start with? I hear the museum El works at has a new exhibit featuring..."

Neal wasn't napping, he was sick of napping; he was lounging.

He had been released from that clinical hell and had settled back into his apartment. He still had daily visits from his physical therapist, followed by a very hot shower, and then a visit from the massage therapist June had hired.  
All before noon. Needless to say, eating lunch (planned by his nutritionist) had taken the last of his reserves. And he still had the rest of the day.

His eyes stopped obeying him, closing against his wishes. But he wasn't napping.

Mozzie came to visit infrequently. Always vague about his forays into the outside world. Each time, there were shadows under his oldest friend's eyes. His posture was tired. Yet his eyes were sharp as ever.

He was up to something. Something Neal wasn't allowed to know.

It didn't take a genius to solve that mystery.

Neal wanted to know, but was too terrified to ask. He still had nightmares. Periods of time when talking felt... uncomfortable.

It had been almost two weeks since Neal had escaped. He had been home for four days. Nearly everyone from work had come by to visit and wish him well. His apartment was filled with flowers and cards.

And no matter how comforted he was by the gesture, what he really wanted, what he needed, he knew that's what Mozzie was getting him.

Neal wheeled himself closer to his friend.

"Neal?" Uncomfortable with the close proximity, Mozzie didn't know what to do.

Neal reached out, hugged Mozzie, holding him close.

His counselor had warned him that his emotions would be erratic. But this felt right. Mozzie was looking out for him.  
Mozzie wasn't a card kinda guy.

Elizabeth was fantastic. She had taken time away from her job and visited often. Always with a board game, or cards, or a movie. She kept him from pulling out his hair. Years in prison had been a harshly taught lesson in patience. But at least then he'd been allowed into the yard. Hell, at least then he could walk.

They would slowly make their way to the cafe at end of the street, she would buy him a small decaf coffee (damn his nutritionist), and she wouldn't judge him when he asked about her time with Keller. He needed to speak with someone who had been there, who had made their way out, and how she could look herself in the mirror and still believe in herself.

Elizabeth was fantastic.

"Neal! Stop touching the buttons!" Peter was driving him home from his check up. Everything was progressing. He wasn't fixed, likely wouldn't be for another month or so, but things were progressing.

"I want to see the horoscope thing."

"How about finding the nearest restaurant? June said your food restrictions were laxed a bit."

Neal didn't hesitate. "I want Waffle House."

Peter almost ran them off the road. "You want WHAT?"

"I want Waffle House."

Peter studied him, looking for a tell, or a head injury.

"If that's what you want..."

Peter pulled into the restaurant. He opened all the doors for Neal as he slowly made his way to the booth with his crutch. His ankle didn't want to accept his full weight yet. His left arm was better, but not strong enough to continually hold and lift the other crutch.

Everything still hurt, and he was quick to tire, but he was getting better. Progressing.

The server took their orders; one coffee, one decaf (DAMN his nutritionist), and breakfast for lunch for each of them.  
Neal made a point to visit here. If Peter knew, he didn't allow it to show. Neal needed to eat breakfast. To stop associating breakfast with cereal. Cereal with danger. Cereal with being drugged. His counselor had been coaching him through this. It was a fucking waffle; he could do this; he would do this.

He made himself look at the shelf with the selection of small cereal boxes near the register, before paying the tab.  
Peter smiled on their way back home. Neal leaned back, content to watch the clouds float past, progressing.

He had been worrying for days, since Neal had moved back home; he seemed fine when with friends, but he was on his own too much. June had left subtle hints that Neal would space out at dinner, lost in his thoughts. He worried that Neal was shutting himself away, and not asking for help when he needed it.

Peter knocked on Neal's door softly, not wanting to disturb him if he were asleep, nor wanting to interrupt anything either.

"It's open!" came calling back to him from deep inside the apartment.

Peter entered and saw no one. The bed was freshly made, the kitchen was clean, and there was no one outside on the balcony. "Neal?"

"In a minute!" came from elsewhere in the apartment; the closet?

"I brought groceries and your juice you asked for, and some kind of over-priced doughnut. Are you allowed to eat this much sugar? Where's that list your nutritionist left you?"

Peter began putting away the items, waiting until Neal came into the room. After he finished, he noticed the easel in the corner; on the floor; thrown there; with an angry color blocking out the art underneath an unfinished canvas.

He sighed and began cleaning up the mess. Neal hadn't painted, or drawn, or so much as folded a napkin since his... ordeal. Apparently, Peter was right to worry; Neal truly was having a difficult time.

Mess cleaned, canvas reset, Peter studied what he could discern under the paint marring the beauty. A Gauguin?

He reminded himself this was a process, Neal's process. It wasn't like riding a bike. It was riding a bike after falling from a cliff, and then doing it again and again, until he learned how to guard himself from the pain of falling. The memories, the scars, the fear, they were all still there; Neal had to learn to ride through them.

"Not one of my better moments..."

"Neal?" Even with a limp and a crutch, the man could wrap stealth around him like a cloak; Peter never heard him enter.

"I threw a tantrum." A shy smile. "I threw a tantrum and had to walk away - well, limp away - before I started down a path that..." A chuckle; self-depreciating and embarrassed. "I just needed to step back. Then I'll get back on the horse, later, when I'm ready. I'll try again tomorrow." He went to the kitchen, poured two glasses of juice, and stared at them, perplexed.

"What's wrong?"

Neal held up his crutch. "I have no idea how to carry these to you." And then he laughed, full and from the heart.  
Peter joined in, easily. Neal was doing fine.

Diana had always considered herself a professional. But having spent the last few weeks watching Peter, she still had a long way to go. The man maintained his temperament, kept his mind focused, and worked seamlessly with the police and Marshal services.

Today was the culmination of weeks of hard work. The sick bastards had been found. "The Nickels Brothers" had a rap sheet since high-school. They had each done the usual: tortured neighborhood animals, been bullies in school, joined the military, were discharged, and were unable to hold a job. All the hallmarks of highly intelligent sadistic bastards.

Diana couldn't wait to take these guys down. How Peter was holding it together alluded her.

The raid was lead by the police, with herself and Peter working tandem. The lead up to the bust was one of the quickest the NYPD had ever seen. There was talk of a short bald man and angry phone calls with a disguised voice.

The building was surround and the signal for the take down had been sent through the teams.

She looked over at Peter; he wasn't paying attention. His goal was obvious: The Nickles Brothers.

The first team entered the building, followed by the second, and then finally she and Peter. All of her attentions focused on the job at hand, she felt herself slip into a detached professionalism. Despite their best efforts, the Nickels Bros would not be going to the morgue as some pseudo macho suicide-by-cop attempt, but to prison. Diana may – MAY – have laughed as the bastards were surrounded and outgunned.

Peter all but shoved away the officer trying to cuff the one Neal called "Gorilla". Peter made sure to cuff that one, tight. Peter looked directly into the bastard's eyes, recited his rights, and promptly guided him from the building, into the waiting vehicle outside.

Diana would never swear to it, but along the walk, Peter seemed to be speaking to the man. It was too low to hear, but before the man was settled into the back seat of the police cruiser, Diana may have heard mention of "taking thumbs". Gorilla was pale as the door was slammed shut.

The other two were lead away as well, out of their hands and into the hands of the justice system.

Peter seemed calmer once the bastards were away. His shoulders relaxed. "Peter?"

Without really turning, he stated "There are currently thirteen convicted mob members in the wing they're going to. These highly influential men seem to be under the impression that The Nickles Brothers are from a rival family. Weird."

Diana just stared, then felt her face break into a smile. "Neal is probably bored. We should bring him some over-priced steak or something."

"Yeah. I'll call El, you call Jones."

"What about Mozzie?"

"He'll be late."

Neal looked into the closet mirror. The bruises were nearly gone. The only visible damage was the cut over his eyebrow. At least, on his face. His body was a mess of angry purples and the healing yellow where his stitches had been.

He took a deep breath. He needed to calm down. This was just another day at the office. Never mind it was his first day back since his... ordeal. No one other than his counselor seemed willing to call it what it was: unfair, cruelty, fear, mockery, fucked up.

And he still had an encroaching testimony to give once his kidnappers were brought to trial...

His suit was a bit loose, but not for much longer. His ankle was tender, but his cane made him look refined, or that's what he told himself. It made Elizabeth laugh, so he kept using it.

His hat showed how much weight he'd lost, his cheekbones too prominent; he left it in the closet. But the tie was its own problem. His wrist still frustratingly impotent, he asked June to help him.

She smiled up at him, handed him his cane, and walked him to the door, just as Peter was pulling up. She pat him on the arm, handed him a thermos of fresh Italian coffee (he had stopped listening to his nutritionist days ago), told him how much she loved him, and wished him a nice day.

Neal looked into the pull-down mirror once in the car.

"You look fine." Peter's voice held equal parts warmth and mockery.

"Yeah." They drove away, melting into traffic.

.

"Dammit, Neal! Stop touching the buttons!"


End file.
